


Word Order

by UnderTheFridge



Category: Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Various AUs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 20:03:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 9,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10624161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnderTheFridge/pseuds/UnderTheFridge
Summary: A collection of fills for one-word prompts - some AUs and some 'normal' 40k universe, various pairings, various genres.(Parts belonging to larger AUs have explanations attached.)





	1. Carefully

**1: Carefully (Modern AU)**

The wind howls across the sky and ruffled feathers shudder with it, tugged this way and that. The drizzle stings across Roboute’s face as he leaves the car at a half-jog, bending against the gusts, approaching the figure huddled by a lamppost in the car park of the Imperial Palace takeaway. The bundle of wings and limbs uncurls slowly when he touches their shoulder and he sees that the angel is probably male, almost certainly injured (there’s quite a bit of blood) and definitely very frightened.

“It’s alright,” Roboute says, low and soothing. “I won’t hurt you. I’m here to help you.”

Rogal is annoyed with him for coming home so late, but agrees that they couldn’t leave this alone. The angel shivers as Roboute brings him out of the car, and once they get him into the light they see that his wounds are both better and worse than first appeared; better because the cut (though long, from his collarbone to his navel) is shallow, and worse because he’s generally beaten and bruised as well. Whatever the fight had been for, it was a hard one.

“Who hurt you?” is what Rogal wants to know, once their guest is clean and dry and bandaged, curled on their sofa with Roboute allowed to stroke his hand softly. “Who did this to you?”

But “He wanted to hurt our father,” is all that the angel will say.


	2. Fermented

**2: Fermented (modern prison AU)**

“Come here,” Russ says, bending down to where there’s a gap between the bedframe and the wall.

“No thank you,” Magnus replies – polite but firm, a strategy designed not to get his ass beaten if Russ decides that he’s wrong about that. So far, Russ seems friendly. But this is a pressure-cooker of a place where friendship was a concept warped beyond recognition, and overall something to be avoided. He’s thankful for the lack of outright hostility. However, that doesn’t mean it will last.

“I wanna show you something,” Russ says, and that’s even worse. Last time someone wanted to show him something, it was an enormous dead cockroach, neatly crucified on the wall next to the toilet with slim splinters of some implement. Magnus had stared at his then-cellmate’s handiwork, and the only thing that came out of his mouth was “Is there any particular significance to what you’ve done?”

His cellmate stared back – he stared a lot, in fact, sometimes at things that other people couldn’t necessarily see.

“It’ll go to Heaven now,” he said, with a deep certainty that Magnus wasn’t going to question, for fear of ending up the same way. Zadkiel wasn’t physically strong, and Magnus had the advantage of bulk, but he was determined; if it took all night to nail a man up like the cockroach, he would probably be able to do it. Magnus was glad when Zadkiel stabbed four inmates, three guards and a basketball that offended his sensibilities – not for the victims, but because it meant he was transferred to a secure unit and Magnus no longer had to worry about an unconventional path to the afterlife.

Zadkiel was replaced by Russ, who is now dangling a bag of _something_ in front of his face. Magnus looks up.

“What is that?”

“Made it,” Russ says, and cracks open a corner of the bag. The fluid inside sloshes, sweetish but with notes of some powerful volatile compound and musty undertones. “Stole honey from the kitchen.”

“You -.” Magnus figures out what the substance might be, and also lowers his voice. “You’ve been making mead behind the pipes?”

“That I have,” Russ says cheerfully. He deftly conceals the bag again, though the smell lingers. If they’re shaken down, he’ll have to find somewhere to put it – but then again, this is a man who came in with a set of knuckle-bones and a talisman shaped like a wolf’s head, and Magnus has no idea where he was keeping _those_. “Now don’t rat me out, or I’ll kill you.” His still-sunny tone makes Magnus wonder – but there is no madness in those eyes, only survival.


	3. Principle

**3: Principle**

( _40k AU, known as 'the God-Pimp of Mankind'; the Emperor funds the Great Crusade through the medium of adult entertainment starring primarchs and Astartes_ )

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Roboute says, wrapping a towel around his waist. Several other people pass him, and he solemnly accepts high-fives from them. “In theory, I understand the idea and its execution, but practically, I can’t say I’d be comfortable with actually filming it.”  
“Oh, go on,” the Emperor responds.

Roboute sighs and sits down, and methodically dries between his toes.

“You’re not obliged to, of course,” his father adds, “but what about it conflicts with your principles?”

Roboute has already thought about this. “The implication that I don’t care for my sons… that I’d just _use_ them in that way.”

“I wouldn’t say you’re using them necessarily – and of course, you know yourself that you truly love them all.”

“My concern is that that doesn’t come across, Father: I know that we’re acting, but the story is presented in a very realistic way, and it could disproportionately affect the reputations of both myself and the legion.”

“If that’s what you’re worried about, then how about a script revision? Change your persona to be more accurate, milder dialogue, shorter scenes? You know, nicer?”

“I’d consider it,” Roboute says, with a little thought. “As long as I have full control over the revisions and the final output.”

“Of course,” the Emperor assures him, and calls across the room “Hey Malc! It’s a yes for the Ultra-orgy!”


	4. Washed

**4: Washed**

The scent in the air was one that Sevatar couldn’t identify immediately. He flared his nostrils and took a deep breath. It was foreign to him, a half-remembered trace from long ago. Detergent, a hint of antiseptic, and flowers – or it could be fruit. He wasn’t an expert on either. Pervasive but not unpleasant, sweetness without rot underneath. The opposite of a corpse in a gutter, he finally decided. That was what it was.

The figure before him looked equally foreign; a giant in loose dark robes, barefoot on the marble floor. A primarch, but not an instantly recognisable one. Pale skin, virtually translucent and somewhat deathly, a little too taut over the bones, but still with a strange glow about it. Bony hands clutching closed the front of the robe, with mid-length nails scrubbed clean of grime and shaped into rounded ends, like wing cases of some moonlight-dwelling insect. Dark hair, so black that light seemed to turn away, falling naturally in soft waves.

“Sevatar,” the figure said, and he realised belatedly that it was his primarch.

But _clean_.


	5. Lightly

**5: Lightly**

“Ah,” Sanguinius says, bending and picking up the feather. “I’m shedding.”

It’s far too big to have come from a pillow or eiderdown – nearly a foot long, in fact, with a gentle curve. Sanguinius strokes it through his hand, making the edges whisper.

“I love your feathers,” Horus tells him, which they both already know. “All of them. Even the ones still attached.”

Sanguinius smiles and sits back down. Horus rolls over to grasp one of the angel’s wings and buries his face in it, provoking a laugh. The stray feather is dragged over his ribs, and he chuckles and twitches.

“Wait,” Sanguinius says, pulling his wing away, “you’re ticklish there?”

“No,” Horus asserts, pink in the face.

“Yes, yes you are.” Sanguinius dangles the feather and Horus tries not to react, but as the tip descends towards his waist he quickly parries with his hands. He isn’t quick enough, and Sanguinius pokes and prods him as he squirms.

“No, I’m not!”

“You are!” The angel crows, and pounces on him. Horus is pinned – not without some concession on his part, although he sometimes doubts he could beat his brother in a straight fight – and subjected to a merciless tickling. He is wriggling and helpless and giggling fit to burst, and at some point the torturous feather is dropped in favour of fingers, and fingers in favour of lips, and they’re both laughing at each other, with each other, breathless on their favourite bed.


	6. Popularity

**6: Popularity**

“You’re popular today,” Tarik rested his hand on the First Captain’s shoulder – something that Abaddon allowed few people to do. He was one of the lucky ones. On a good day.

Abaddon growled, and Tarik chose to remove the hand before it was removed from his wrist. “What do you mean?”

He looked unusually shifty at that, and Tarik couldn’t work out why.

“What do you mean, what do I mean?” Tarik smiled, hoping to defuse the tension that he was fairly sure wasn’t his fault. “I just said you’re popular today.”

“How?”

“I…” Ezekyle’s eyes cautioned him against bluffing, or lying. “Well, you’ve been in demand all day, haven’t you. I saw Kibre coming out of your quarters this morning, and Aximand requested your presence straight after. Hastur wanted you on the bridge, but then changed his mind and met you in the training cages – probably the primarch’s idea. And he himself wants to see you this evening…. What? What is it?” He thought back over his words, looking for some offence. “I’m not saying that – that you’re at the beck and call of… but why would….” Tarik’s eyebrows went up. “Wait –wait, you’re looking at me like that because you think I’m implying that you’re popular in terms of your… your impressive swordsmanship? That you had sex with all those people? No, I’m not – really, I thought you were….” He paused, and it seemed to stretch for aeons. “You had sex with all those people.”

“I refuse to confirm or deny such scandalous accusations,” Abaddon said, and that proved it.

“I won’t tell anybody,” Tarik promised, recovering his composure and winking at the captain. “But do let me know next time there’s a hole in your schedule.”

Abaddon’s rumble of amusement and outrage followed him out of the chamber.


	7. Implications

**7: Implications**

_Somewhere, somehow, the Eighth have fled back to the Warp without him, fearing the approach of another legion even though the compliance is done. Or at least, what they call compliance._

_The Third find Sevatar atop a mound of corpses, cursing his father and the power generator of his teleport, because both have failed him this time._

The look in Eidolon’s eyes as the primarch kissed his forehead before he left was nothing short of enraptured. For this lot, the attention of their lord was something to be desired and celebrated, and they fought each other for it like eager puppies, usually at the expense of the enemy. Sevatar found it hilarious.

“If you think I’m going to bow and scrape and kneel on this floor to await your benediction,” he said, “you’re much mistaken.”

Fulgrim slapped him. Sevatar got up from the very floor he’d refused to kneel on, rubbing his cheek.

“I’d remind you to take a more respectful tone, captain, than you might around your own father.”

“You really must have pulled that one.” It wasn’t hard enough to even bruise, only to sting.

“I don’t want to kill you. Partly because you’re unarmed, but mostly because I’d incur the jealousy of thousands of others, for getting there first.”

“Thousands? You underestimate the number of enemies I’ve made, sire,” Sevatar replied, flattered that a primarch would even think about wasting time on killing him with his own hands rather than delegating the task – and also asking for another slap, with that tone. Fulgrim didn’t oblige, smiling at him instead with something deadly beneath the warmth.

“Well, I’d rather assumed they would all be dead by now, in line with your reputation.”

Now that really was flattering. Sevatar prided himself (inasmuch as he had any pride) on eliminating those who opposed him, one at a time – but many still remained, far too many for him ever to relax.

“I’ve still got a few more to kill,” he admitted with a shrug. “And it’s not like I can get someone else to do it. You can’t trust anybody with that kind of work.”

“You like to get your hands dirty.” There might have been some veiled meaning there. Sevatar chose to believe that there was.

“I enjoy getting dirty as much as possible,” he said, making no attempt to keep a straight face. “As you’re no doubt aware, _my lord._ ”

“I wonder, do you behave in this manner towards all primarchs?” Fulgrim asked, and Sevatar was entirely unsure if it was meant as a joke, a criticism, or a sign of impending execution.

“Only the good-looking ones,” he said. His mouth obviously wasn’t listening to the concerns of his brain.

Fulgrim only raised an eyebrow – and then his face split into a smile that was gorgeous, radiant and entirely predatory.

“Well, that’s an ego boost,” he said, or something like it: Sevatar could hardly hear over the rush of blood in his ears, the singing of his nerve endings, the consequences for body and mind of having a primarch’s full attention turned on him (and such a charismatic one at that). It felt good. It felt like he wanted to kneel now, though he’d scoffed at the idea mere minutes ago. For once, he could see why another legion did something – in this case, adoring a primarch made to be adored, scuffling over every scrap of recognition he deigned to drop.

Not that Sevatar _would_ kneel, obviously. He wasn’t quite respectful enough for that. Plus, he had some precious dignity left to maintain. He would take the risk of being thrown out of the primarch’s chambers.

As it was, he was thrown into them. Which was nice.

\--

“Well, I should go,” Sevatar declared, without embarrassment: not a tactical retreat designed to save face. Just a fairly honest statement.

“What?” Fulgrim looked up, rearranging the covers meticulously. Already forgotten, Sevatar thought. How fitting.

“We’re done here, aren’t we?” He shrugged. “I’ll be off.”

“Of course you won’t, darling.” (Sevatar wondered whether that was an order.) “Come here.” (That was definitely an order, though in a tone so affectionate that it hardly sounded like one.) “I’d be callous in the extreme to cast you from my bed, when we’ve had such a good time.”

“We did,” Sevatar acknowledged, sitting back down heavily and rubbing at a bruise on his thigh. He’d make sure to show it off as long as it lasted. “But he never – are you saying he’s callous?”

“My brother? Yes. He is. But that’s just the way he works, isn’t that right?” He reached across to adjust the pillows behind their heads. “I’m sure he uses you like a lifeless doll, then throws you out into the hallway to crawl back to whatever bolt-hole you’re calling home.”

“Sometimes he kisses me first.”

He received a long, level look from the primarch. “Well, one takes what one can get.”

“If you say so. I don’t really have a choice.”

“But you chose to come to me?”

“I chose to try my luck. And I got lucky, didn’t I? My seduction skills can’t have suffered in the intervening years.”

Fulgrim sighed, and pulled him closer. “You have a certain idiosyncratic charm.”

“So I’m told. What are you doing?”

“I’m cuddling you, darling. Perhaps that’s not something you’re accustomed to?”

“I’m not.” Sevatar was a little perturbed, to tell the truth. Not only was he being retained, in a warm soft bed, but there were arms around him and he could settle into a comfortable position against his partner’s body. It felt right. “I… maybe I’ll fall asleep like this.” He was thinking out loud, more than anything.

“You don’t have to. But I’d quite like you to stay.”

“I can stay.” Not that he was in a position to refuse, but it was wonderfully absurd to think of a primarch being loved and left. Why would anyone want to tear away from their embrace? He could think of a few reasons, actually – but not for a _normal_ primarch. And especially not one as charismatic as this. The hold around his back tightened, and he buried his head in the fathomless depths of the pillow and filed away a new definition. Not love, or romance – but cuddling. An interesting one indeed.


	8. Peach

**8: Peach (a young Horus on Terra)**

“Father,” Horus said, taking a stone from his mouth and dropping it neatly into a bowl. “I have a question.”

“Go on,” the Emperor replied.

“Why does this fruit have buttocks?”

His father stared – first at Horus, then at the peach.

“Did you not have these on Cthonia?”

“We had _fruit_ ,” Horus defended. “But not like this.” He picked up another. “And those things like this, but without the fuzz. And apricots. They’ve all got buttocks.” He patted the peach on its backside.

“It’s an evolutionary thing,” was all the Emperor could offer; this was more challenging than Horus’s prior questions about human anatomy.

“But why?”

“Something to do with cell division. Look, do you really want another lecture on plant developmental biology?”

“No,” Horus conceded. “But, it’s funny.”

“I assure you, once you’re used to eating Terran food, the presence of, as you put it, _buttocks,_ will cease to amuse.”

“Really?” the boy was sceptical. “No, I think it’ll always be funny.”

(And sure enough, almost a century later: “But Rogal, this fruit has _arse cheeks!_ How can that not even raise a smile?”)


	9. Forearm

**9: Forearm**

_Scars, tattoos or brands on the inside of the forearm; engravings on gauntlet or vambrace. It is not about pain threshold or visibility – most of those bearing these markings choose to keep them hidden, or at least do not publicise the fact. Only when two are in the same location does the significance become clear: when the brothers clasp hands or arms, the sigils come together, sometimes forming one design from two halves. From two, they become one. They are one, pledged to each other in life for its duration, and in death eternal. One on their own is formidable; both together are unstoppable._


	10. Paper

**10: Paper**

( _‘Birmingham’ AU; present-day human AU with a range of ages, where a family feud means that the loyalist primarchs live with their wealthy father Caesar in his country mansion, while the traitors are consigned to a flat in an inner-city tower block, short of funds and struggling to survive.)  
_

“Get food while you’re out,” Fulgrim ordered, “you need to eat more, and I’m not letting Horus starve you.”

Konrad looked down at the note in his hand. “It’s got glitter on it.”

“So have half the men in this town,” Fulgrim said spitefully – a half-truth, since he never wore anything on his skin that might transfer if he was planning on contact with clients (or ‘no lipstick on the collar!’ as the house rules proclaimed). “Are you going to take it, or does the thought of handing over money covered in sparkles offend your darkling Gothic sensibilities?”

Konrad took it, with only a hint of offence.

\--

Perturabo squinted at the smudged carpenters’ pencil on the scrap of paper. He needed reading glasses, but he’d never be caught wearing them at work – and rarely at school, where he huddled at the back of the classroom with his nose an inch from the page, only looking up to absorb information from the whiteboard. He would much prefer to be at home, where he could read in relative peace, than stepping off a bus in the suburbs, with drizzle starting to come down lightly on his head and shoulders in the absence of a coat. He checked the scrap of paper again; it had directions, which he’d insisted on. There was no guarantee that he’d get anywhere near the internet to search for the place. That cost money. Horus was starting discussions about getting a computer of their own, and a connection – but Perturabo couldn’t see where the funds would come from. Even if he handed over all of what he earned (instead of keeping some back, which he was currently doing – which they were all doing, he suspected), it still might not be enough. He checked the note for a third time, unnecessarily: the site was marked out by barriers and blocks, dust and dirt and fluttering sheets of mesh. Perturabo tucked the paper away and squared his shoulders, in preparation for speaking to the man who knew the man who would give him a day’s work and cash in hand, no questions asked.

\--

Magnus had no questioning to do. He was absolutely sure that someone had been sent to drop the letter into their post-box at the base of the building, because it wasn’t addressed to them. It was for their father, from the twins’ school. It hadn’t even been opened. Magnus read the letter, tapping one corner of the envelope against the table. Being a proxy for appointments was an annoyance at best – but he wouldn’t stand to see his brothers denied an education.

“Thank you for taking the time, Mr – or Sir -.”

Magnus stopped her before she became bogged down in titles which didn’t belong to him anyway. “I’m not Mr Terrae, I’m afraid. I’m their big brother.”

“Oh.” She looked down at her file stuffed with papers, obviously thinking some thoughts of confidentiality.

“Yes,” Magnus said, “he’s done it again.”

That made her look up.

“I’m not their parent, but anything you want to tell him, you might as well tell me, because I’m the one looking after them. This isn’t the first time he’s slacked off a meeting and left one of us to do it instead, I know, and it won’t be the last.”

She nodded, recovering her composure a little. “I believe I’ve met one of your siblings already. He’s… very striking.”

Fulgrim, probably. And from the colour in her cheeks, Magnus could guess that she’d encountered him in some ‘extra-curricular activity’, too. It was quite a trend. Many of the gainfully employed men and women of the city seemed to be gainful enough to afford time with his brother – and you’d never forget a face like that.

Magnus decided not to ask.

\--

Horus read the rest of the post, unaware that Magnus had kidnapped one of the letters, greatly missing the presence of his favourite letter-opener. And the chair he usually sat in to do it, in the South Wing conservatory, with the mosaic-topped Moroccan table next to it. And the conservatory itself, with the sun streaming in and the gentle whisper of the bamboo, and perhaps one of the dogs at his feet. And the house itself. He stared at a bank statement, not really seeing it – the account where they stored all the ‘family money’; at least for their small, disjointed section of the family. It was alright. They had some spare funds. And they could have much more. His gaze drifted to the note from his father. In as many words, on fine stationery likely intended to rub it in: apologise. Say sorry and you can come back, and I will support you again. Perhaps, Horus thought, if he responded well enough, his father might be moved to an apology himself. The pull of the chair in the conservatory, with the whispering bamboo and the spotless glass looking onto the gardens, was strong.

\--

“Father?” The carpet silenced Roboute’s approach, and so he announced himself before reaching Caesar’s desk, standing with hands clasped behind.

“Mm.” His father turned a page of the Financial Times, and it settled gently onto the polished surface of the desk, the tiny print reflected slightly in squiggles.

“I wanted to talk to you about my report – they’re coming next week.” He waited for his father to nod acknowledgement before continuing. “I think I’m on track, but my Geography grade might be a concern. My work is up to standard, but the teacher, quite frankly, harbours a deeply personal prejudice against me. I think it started with my essay criticising the application of surveying techniques designed for certain terrain in completely different areas of the world – not so much the technical aspect, but the perceived inability of studies to meet data targets, when research teams are under-practised in deployment within the territory, and existing local sources would be a much better supply of –.”

Caesar stopped him with a raised hand. “I’ll bear it in mind. What are you doing now?”

Roboute glanced at his watch. “Piano lesson. Janette says she wants to talk to you about Leman.”

His father perked up a little at that, and smoothed down the newspaper in an attempt to distract from it. “If she’s outside, send her in. If not, then… well, I’m sure she’ll find her way to me eventually. Go and enjoy your piano lesson.”


	11. Used

**11: Used ('Principle' sequel)**

“Are you happy?”

“Very happy.” Roboute stroked Thiel’s head gently, gazing down at the sleeping marine with an expression of the purest love.

“I mean, about the script revisions.”

“Oh.” The primarch blinked. “Oh, yes. I am. And I think it creates the right impression, overall.” He sat up slightly, trying not to disturb the various limbs draped over his body, and looked around. The throne room – his actual throne room, though decorated beyond all recognition (that was another thing that caused him concern; the implication that he presided over the legion from a classically-inspired boudoir) – was littered with exhausted bodies. “I’ll have to see the editing process, though. To be sure. How much footage will actually be included?”

“We’re looking at about two hours,” the Emperor said with a shrug, “but in separate scenes. Or rather, as part of the whole, but the viewer can pick and choose. You can even change camera angles. Everyone will have a full-on, all-round, immersive experience centred on you systematically working your way through your high command through the medium of a good hard -.”

Roboute cleared his throat loudly enough to make several of the sleeping Ultramarines stir.

“I’ll still have to take part in the editing.”

“Alright, your call. Try and keep it in your pants, though.”

“Excuse me.” That was, to be honest, a little, offensive. “That’s Horus you’re thinking of.”


	12. Wolf

**12: Wolf**

Russ was barely visible in the dim hall, curled up on a bed of blankets, his nose buried under

_his tail_

part of his furs. Horus crept past, unwilling to wake him, but even a primarch couldn’t be quiet enough not to alert one of his kindred spirits and Russ

_twitched an ear_

moved his head so his braids shifted. He wasn’t awake or aware by any means, but his lying posture was still somehow watchful and to his rear, his

_haunches_

legs were bent as if ready to spring and seize an adversary in his sharp teeth. He would bring them to the floor and sink his _muzzle_ face into their vulnerable side and bring all his _cubs_ men to the celebration, the _feast_ , puffing and snarling over scraps, bracing their paws against the ground to tear away ribbons of meat, hot breaths of steam rising in cold air, blood beaded on shaggy fur, licking their chops as they paced around the carcass of the prey –

Horus blinked. His brother, a human shape in the gloom, gave a lazy snort and clenched one armoured hand. Hairs rose on the back of the Warmaster’s neck. He left, almost fleeing, without really knowing why.


	13. Etched

**13: Etched (the God-Pimp AU strikes again)**

“Some worlds don’t really have the technology,” Malcador said. “They’re fully compliant, mostly agri-worlds, and they make use of some very sophisticated farming machinery – but in their personal lives, in their homes, the innovation just isn’t there. They have a few vehicles, maybe a pict-screen they all gather round, but some of the habitations I’ve seen don’t even have electricity. They go to bed by candlelight and rise with the sun, and mass media is basically unheard of. And they’re incredibly resistant to change. The one thing that’s certainly present, though, is the printing press.”

“Which is why you’re doing that?”

“Which is why I’m doing this.” The old man pushed up his sleeve, and resumed paring tiny curls of wood from the surface of the block. “It’s just a trial run, of course. I’m the only one he trusts with it, apparently. If it goes into production, the presses can use acid-etched metal plates instead, or laser-cut – and I will _not_ be doing them by hand.”

“Did you draw the image?”

Malcador bristled slightly. “I did not. I’m not such an accomplished artist. And even if I could draw well enough, I hardly think that my talents would extend this far.” He slowly, painstakingly delineated the curve of a buttock. “On these worlds,” he continued conversationally, “they tend to prefer the more ‘barbarian’ primarchs and legions, by our standards. Russ. The Khan. Sanguinius has a limited following, although most aren’t over-keen on mutants, or deserts. The Lion is popular, as a feudal lord figure; they imagine him to be benevolent and protective, according to the consumer survey. This is all based on appearance, you understand.” He whisked away a few stray filaments of wood. “Mortarion has a great appeal, although we can’t fathom why. Possibly the scythe. He looks like a working man – or, more bluntly, he carries a peasant’s weapon. Either way, copies of these will be produced with whatever equipment is available – it saves importing material, and means the manufacturing can be on-world. Plus, people seem to like the idea of ‘home-grown’ industry, even if it’s…” he gestured at the block. “This.”

“That’s hardly obscene.”

“Oh, but it will be.” Malcador poked at the wood again. “It will be.”


	14. Garden

**14: Garden**

( _Birmingham AU; a young teenager, Angron is at a residential behaviour management school, paid for by his father but visited only by his exiled brothers_.)

Eschewing tools, he plunged his hands into the soft earth. It was loose between his fingers and warmed by the sun, and lumps crumbled in his grasp if he pressed a little harder, and the smell was rich and fertile. The smell of life. He put the double handful to one side and neatened the corresponding hole with the tips of his fingers. Then, brushing stray particles off onto his shirt, he turned halfway to the tray of plants, picking the nearest one to gently squeeze and lift the seedling and root ball from its plastic pot. It was placed gently in the hole, standing upright, for the soil to be filled in around. The final touch was to tidy the base, patting down the dirt. He shuffled to the next position without hurry, to dig another pit.

Horus watched him from a safe distance, feeling as if a camouflaged hide like the ones used to watch birds would be appropriate. But his brother was facing away as it was.

“You’ve found something for him to do,” he said conversationally, making it come out as praise rather than dismissal. “He even looks happy.”

“He is happy,” said the gentle lady who was by far the most patient of the staff here. “He loves gardening.”

Horus considered. “I wish we had a garden for him at home.”’

‘I thought you did’, was what she was going to say, but she didn’t. Angron had two homes, and the one Horus lived in was small and grey and high off the ground. No garden.


	15. Replicate

**15: Replicate**

( _based on the story where Roboute discovers that sex can be used to facilitate social interaction, and sets about testing his theory. Very thoroughly_.)

It was just an off-hand comment, but it bothered him.

“You should make sure you can replicate your findings,” Horus said, as a joke, but it stuck with him. Because he should. Because even if the original conclusions of his rather avant-garde experimental approach had been written up and pored over in the usual fashion, to be truly _rigorous_ ….

It wouldn’t hurt to repeat the procedure. Most of his brothers would be in agreement. Especially Lorgar (although, to be brutally honest, Roboute could have done without his particular brand of zealous enthusiasm). And if any of them weren’t – well, that was valuable information too, wasn’t it? Evidence that this wasn’t always completely effective as a means of building bridges, or maintaining them.

Or perhaps Angron just hated him the same as everyone. In which case, his strategy wasn’t going to be viable at all. Still interesting – it pained him to think there was at least one that he could never get through to, but he would accept the discomfort if it meant discovering the truth.

The rest were more than comfortable, though, until he got back round to where he started.

“Oh darling,” Fulgrim said indulgently, “you don’t need to justify it like that – I’m always happy to help you.”

And then, when he was in Roboute’s arms, “Is it truly rigorous, though?”

Roboute pulled his head away from where he’d been drinking in the soft sweet scent of Fulgrim’s skin. “What?”

“Well, you are repeating the procedure – but the circumstances are hardly identical. The first time isn’t the same as the second, and for some of us, it _was_ the first time that you’d ever come across in that way.”

“Are you saying it’s no longer a representative sample?”

Fulgrim stroked his hair. “Not if you’re wishing to replicate the first time. If you were to go around for a third instance, though… actually, I don’t know. Hmm. That could change everything again.”

Roboute rested his brow on the chest of his fellow primarch, feeling the blood drain upwards this time, to his brain. For once, that wasn’t entirely a good thing.

“I think,” he said finally, thoughtfully, “that there are far too many variables, overall and on an individual basis, for me ever to conduct a truly empirical study. I have to rely on the preliminary findings, which are probably the most genuine test of sexual interaction as a means of _starting_ a dialogue… anything further to that is an extension, testing the idea that one can _maintain_ positive interactions this way. Or indeed, build a relationship almost solely based on it.”

“You’re on shaky theoretical ground, brother, and you know it,” Fulgrim scolded gently. “That’s something you hate. So why are you still doing this?”

Roboute frowned against his ribcage. “Because… well. I’ve come to appreciate this – this method of communication. So, I suppose the benefits go both ways.”

 


	16. Heritage

**16: Heritage (modern AU)**

Malcador is worried, because he thinks Caesar might be serious this time. “Now, you’ve said this before, but -.”

“But this time I mean it.”

So he is serious. It’s not his statement that convinces Malcador, but his actions – one hand finding the address book with the family solicitor’s number in it, the other scanning shelves, with fingertips leading eyes to folder after folder full of papers.

“You’ve never gone through with it before.”

“This time is different,” Caesar assures him, taking down a heavy box-file. “You don’t need me to tell you how serious this is, Malc. You know how we are, as a family, don’t you? My father – our father – and his father before him, and our great-grandfather, all the way back to the first landed knight to take the lord’s title and bear the mantle of our name through the generations.” His eyes dart to the long hanging on the wall of the study; part of the family tree, with ever-more-complex coats of arms standing bright from the parchment, gold shining on their edges. “He doesn’t deserve a place among them any more.”

“He’s your son.”

“Not for long.” Perhaps Caesar could be persuaded out of this, but Malcador wasn’t optimistic. The moment could well have passed. His brother’s fury, when invoked, was like a runaway train ploughing through whatever stood in its path. “I’m writing him out of the will.”


	17. Lalochezia

**17: Lalochezia (the use of abusive language to relieve stress or ease pain)**

The Lord of the Ultramarines rarely had cause to use offensive language. He could easily quantify the number of times he had reached into the more colourful areas of his vocabulary – and sometimes did.

The three Low Gothic curses he’d uttered upon discovering that several ships had been lost, the first time he led his fleet through the Empyrean. They were rough, unseemly words for a statesman such as him, in a language he had only just mastered, but they felt right (and the sidelong glance of the human captain only confirmed that). Since then, of course, he’d become accustomed to the ways of the Warp. He still mourned every wayward vessel, but in a more dignified manner, at least externally.

The single crude expression of wonder – the only word left echoing when his active head was completely empty for the first time – upon seeing the Emperor’s palace on Terra. A word of the native tongue of Macragge; a word employed liberally by desperate-to-impress teenagers and disdained by adults. The sparkling vista below had left him dumb of all else, and it had made the Emperor smile at His son’s brief and almost imperceptible loss of composure. “Indeed,” He had said, and those accompanying them had startled, because none of them had that intimate view of the mind shared by the Master of Humanity.

The High Gothic exclamation of anguish at his first serious wound – a roar of pain and anger truly befitting a primarch, and it helped with the pain, and he didn’t go down (though several of his sons hesitated and hovered to catch him, which would break protocol and probably their spines as well). He fought on, as best he could, slightly delirious with the rush of hormones.

Only the Apothecary and a couple of high-ranking officers were close enough later to hear the stream of invective in various dialects as shards of ceramite and tatters of cloth were peeled from the poisoned, bubbling wound. It was mentioned that research had shown that bad language was actually beneficial to pain relief. A barbed spear-tip from a death-dealing world was pulled from his internals. He had taken his arm away from his face for a moment and said “ _Fine, but don’t skimp on the fucking drugs you Narthecium-wielding shit of a gutter-leech’s arsehole_.” (A grave insult on any Ultramarine home world. None of them were sure whether to laugh or not. He had apologised later.)

He recognised all these uses and more as appropriate for the situation – perhaps not a source of pride, but justified in the circumstances. His internal lexicon had since grown to proportions unimaginable to any human, and the pool of potential expletives along with it. But it was not his job to offend. The rich tapestry of insults was never displayed in its entirety.

Though there was something about his brother that made him want to cast a strong light on this metaphorical piece of linguistic embroidery, and turn the air blue with reflections from its surface.

He didn’t know what that something was.

There was even a word for it, in the tongues of his native world: ‘ _a person who irritates you by their mere existence_ ’, with various modifiers for whether this was justified or not. He couldn’t say which category his brother fell into – certainly, he had never offended Roboute _personally_ (one of the options), or offended his _family_ (another option), or somehow _turned out to be a bad person, thus validating a previously irrational dislike_ (a nuance used more frequently than one might expect)… but it felt like he had done all those and more. It seemed like a failure, to admit that there was _no good reason_ to hate the odious little creep – and there it was again, the tone of opprobrium that he couldn’t help, even when the situation might not call for it.

“Yes, more,” Lorgar breathed in his ear, and he felt very much that this situation called for it.

“You’re an odious little creep… I said it. You’re a _belly-crawling_ _eater of lichens_ , except those – ah – those are of some benefit to the ecosystem, those… those creatures….”

“You hate me….”

“I don’t -.”

“You do – that’s alright. Tell me what you really think, I want to hear those words….”

What was it with Word Bearers and words? The clue was in the name, he supposed.

“Punish me with your tongue,” Lorgar hissed, and it was all Roboute could do not to end it right there: end it as in ‘pull out, drop the bastard on the floor and walk away, ignoring both of their needs’, rather than any more agreeable conclusion.

“You’re a liar, and a cheat, and I don’t know why anyone… anyone would ever trust you.”

“Harder!”

“You two-faced little schemer, you _twister of minds_. You’d sooner sell your soul than be honest.”

“Oh, come on!” Lorgar leaned forward to kiss him and bit his lip instead, and that did it.

“You insolent FUCK!” Roboute growled, not knowing which language he was using and not caring, his grip on the other primarch’s wrists growing tight so the bones ground and Lorgar let out a pleased whine. “Leech! Liar! _Whore_!” (Meaning someone who sold their opinions and ideas cheaply, not the more physical kind). “I’d threaten you but it’s not worth the breath, if I took your head and hung it from the battlements people would _celebrate for a year and a day_ , and you’d have more integrity than you ever did in life – you’re scum, you’re a pathetic mewling excuse for a primarch made with the _leftover dregs from the bottom of Father’s vessel_ ,” (true, they didn’t have a conventional parentage, but the phrase still worked), “I pity the day and all the days you set foot on a planet, bringing your enlightenment – what enlightenment? If only they could see you _grovel_ , they’d not think you so _mighty_. You are nothing! _Nothing_! _If I hate you, it’s only because you earned it_!”

“Call me a slut!” Lorgar interrupted eagerly.

“What?” Roboute stilled, and Lorgar wriggled and kicked with his heels as if trying to urge a lazy horse to get going. “No!”

“But you were insulting me… you were angry _…_. Give me your feelings….”

“I was – but that’s not one of them. I’m not going to just abuse you on demand.”

“And give me more of your _Imperial sword_.”

Roboute ground his teeth and slammed Lorgar back against the wall, but didn’t start moving again. “You little _ingrate_. What gives you the right to make demands? Who told you that you can just _pull carelessly the threads of other people’s lives_ and leave them tangled without bothering?”

Lorgar pouted, and Roboute resisted the urge to slap him.

“It’s no fun when you’re not following up the invective with a good hard -.”

“Lorgar! That does it!”

Roboute dropped him – Lorgar slid down to the base of the wall in a heap of robes and limbs and gazed up in outraged disbelief – and fixed his own clothing so that it at least wasn’t immediately apparent that he’d been nailing his fellow primarch against the nearest available surface. The nagging lust at the base of his stomach was something he could deal with later. He was quite content with that.

Aurelian’s curses, much more vibrant than his own and in tongues ancient enough to make elder gods blush, followed him through the chamber as he strode to the exit, and as he was just about to leave – .

“Roboute, wait! Research says swearing is good for stress and pain relief!”

“I know,” he said, “isn’t it just?”

And closed the door.


	18. Ayurnamat

**18: Ayurnamat (the philosophy that there is no point in worrying about events that cannot be changed.)**

“I’m not concerned.”

“Really?” Magnus turns, disbelieving, running a hand through his anarchic mass of hair. “Really? But you know how this goes….”

“Even so -.”

“I saw you, casting those – those _things_ ,” they both know full well that Magnus knows what the ‘things’ are; they’re Fenrisian runes carved onto sacred stones from the Mountain at the Edge of the World. Russ learned to use them around the same time as he learned how to use knives, and words (and furniture). “And, assuming your arcane branch of folklore is actually onto something,” which it is; he can feel Russ’s stunted clairvoyant power sing through the stones, “you know how this is going to go.”

“I’m not concerned,” Russ repeats, and Magnus makes a few rude gestures at his brother’s back out of pure frustration. Having to be around Russ for more than ten minutes tends to do that to him. “I can’t change anything, can I? That’s not what runes do for you. They just give you a bit of foresight.”

“Forewarned is forearmed.”

“I’ve got quite enough arms, thank you.”

“But you know the direction of the campaign. The future is set out before you, if…. Don’t you have the _slightest_ bit of impetus to try and alter one of the many fates you’ve foreseen?”

“Nope,” Russ says. He puts his feet up on a wolf, and takes what looks like half a loaf of bread from the folds of his cloak. “No point worrying about it.”


	19. Mamihlapinatapei

**20: Mamihlapinatapei (the look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move.)**

( _alright, this one is a bit of a cheat - the original prompt was filled[here](http://sabbatine.tumblr.com/post/106579869546/mamihlapinatapei-guillimanlorgar), and this is written from the tags below:_

 _#Dorn/Fulgrim/Perturabo threesome anyone? #yes I know you hate each other but I like smiths that are good with their hands and Ferrus is on the other end of the galaxy #so you two will have to do #the tag novel #the tag smutfic really_ )

“Many times, brother, we have faced each other over a table of one kind or another – always on opposite sides.”

Perturabo glanced up, his ever-present frown deepening.

“What do you mean by that?”

His tone was a rusty combat knife and Dorn was a little taken aback.

“Nothing – honestly, nothing. It was just an observation.”

“Hm. Are you trying to make conversation?”

“I… in way, I suppose, yes.”

“Why bother?” Perturabo snapped, inviting no answer. Dorn looked at his hands, then at his brother’s hands, then back at his own, just in case it was interpreted as some sort of insult. He didn’t intend to wear the other down through prolonged and weighty silence, but the weary sigh from Perturabo’s mouth seemed to suggest that that was the case anyway.

“Does he think we’ll talk?”

“He gave no indication either way,” Dorn said neutrally.

“But does he think we’ll _talk_?”

“I hardly think it’s some great tactical initiative of his,” Dorn assured. He wanted to add ‘you see conspiracy in everything, where there is never any’, but bit it back.

“But does he _really_ think we’ll _talk_?”

“To be quite honest, I’m surprised you’re even still looking at each other.”

They both glanced up as their brother sauntered in, carrying a box and wearing a loose, diaphanous toga. Dorn wondered at the amount of skin on display – though by most accounts, it was apparently nothing unusual.

“Aren’t you cold?”

“What? No, of course not.” Fulgrim set the box down to one side and stood at the head of the table, beaming as if the gathering couldn’t be more amicable. “This? It’s just a casual indulgence.” He plucked at the toga, causing the folds to fall even more loosely. Perturabo stared at him, and swallowed, and then glanced at Dorn to check that Dorn hadn’t noticed his distraction. Dorn duly pretended not to have noticed, while also noticing Fulgrim observed all this with an ever-so-slight quirk of his lips.

“May I offer you wine?”

“You may,” Perturabo said, “but don’t expect me to take it. Are we here for drink, or discourse?”

Fulgrim didn’t seem put off in the slightest. “Rogal?”

He smiled, and Dorn felt a precipitous sensation. In any other company, he’d accept, to banish their notions (should they hold any) of stuck-up Rogal Dorn, never willing to have fun. A little wine, a little free-flowing conversation, and they would all be much at ease. But Perturabo glowered at him and somehow he’d gravely offend either whatever he said. Which, objectively, demanded a little something to ameliorate his discomfort.

“Yes, why not?”

Fulgrim pulled out vessels and amphora with a speed neither languorous nor indecorous.

“This is one of Magnus’s,” he remarked, pouring liberally. Dorn took the ample measure he was given without complaint. “Powerful, fortified, earthy, but not without its charms.” He paused, dark eyes over the edge of the glass directed at the others. “Rather like some I could mention.”

Dorn took a long draught, as he already knew what was coming.

“And what are you implying?” Perturabo asked – and before Fulgrim could justify the statement, added “If you’re looking for charm, you’ve come to the wrong place. Neither of us concern ourselves with anything like that.”

“So you do agree on something,” Fulgrim said quickly, and Perturabo halted midway through raising his goblet. Dorn felt it wise not to speak.

“Only that we fail to see the point of wasting time and effort on blithe mannerisms and fatuous sweet-talk when more direct methods work better.” Perturabo gestured at his hated brother. “He knows the truth of it. Oh, he won’t _say_ , because he’s at least _diplomatic_ , which I’m not. But he _knows_.”

“Well,” Fulgrim said, unruffled, “do you, Rogal?”

“Directness has its merits,” Dorn said stiffly, “I think we can all agree on that.”

“ _He_ can’t,” Perturabo asserted, seemingly unaware that Dorn had sided with him, or he had sided with Dorn, whichever way it worked. “It’s all traps and tricks with you, _Phoenician_. You’d sooner bore the enemy to death with your poetry than stave in their heads with your sword.”

He drained his glass and poured another. Dorn realised that his own glass was equally bereft, but was reluctant to refill it so soon. The heady wines of Prospero were treacherous even for a primarch, especially if this was the vintage he suspected (some maintained that Magnus cast ancient spells over the barrels by moonlight, to improve the potency, and they could well be right).

“You think my poetry is boring? What a shame.” Fulgrim gave a theatrical sigh, and Dorn sensed Perturabo’s hackles rise. He could tolerate the pageantry of the IIIrd; his brother not so much. “I shall have to improve, until it is worthy of your standards.”

“I have no standards,” Perturabo spat, “not for something as useless as poetry.” He emptied his glass again.

Fulgrim raised his eyebrows in feigned offence.

“You wound me, my dear. True, I never thought you a patron of the arts – but _useless_ …. Rogal, tell me this isn’t true….”

“Poetry has its proponents,” Dorn said, “and I am among them, but not everyone appreciates the form.”

“ _Diplomatic_ ,” Perturabo growled, as if it were a curse. He put his goblet down with a hard clunk on the polished table-top. “Pretty words and pretty smiles and they mean _nothing_.” (Dorn wondered who was meant to be the pretty one – surely not him.) “Why are we here? Enough idle talk – why are we here?!”

He pointed at Fulgrim, who reacted as if stung. It took a second for his composure to reappear.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You know damn well what I mean; you wanted us here and nobody puts us together in a room expecting civilised discourse. We can’t do that – he’s too honest and I don’t care. _Why?_ ”

“You’re wanting me to be… direct?”

“Oh, if you can _manage_ that, it would be fine,” Perturabo said belligerently. Fulgrim smiled and leaned his hands on the table, drawing them both inadvertently towards the centre, the better to hear him.

“Then I shall be. On the other side of the galaxy, there exists a man by the name of Ferrus Manus; currently at the head of his armies, embroiled in a war of attrition against an alien foe….”

“You’re not being direct,” Perturabo warned, and Fulgrim ignored him.

“And what is this man known for? Not his wit, nor his brilliance – not his boundless determination or his tactical acumen – but his hands. His wonderful, metalloid, _talented_ hands….”

“F-.”

“The point is, gentlemen: I like men with good hands. Great hands. _Working_ hands. I grow weary of such diversions as I can find here, so far from him. I want a battle-hardened warsmith to lay siege to my ramparts and assail my keep. I want to pin those rough hands with mine as I spear his vanguard in return. I want to be cast across the anvil and pounded into shape. Do you understand? Or are my words too _pretty_ for you?”

He took a delicate sip from his glass.

A webbing of cracks appeared in both sides of the table, as two sets of fingers clenched down upon it.

Dorn cleared his throat, but it was Perturabo who spoke first.


	20. Breath

**21: Breath**

Russ liked his brothers best when they were honest, in form as well as in word and deed. When they worked, when blood and sweat were spent on war. That was when he found out most about them. Usually, most of them smelled too clean and cold, too sterile.

He bent closer, not particularly surreptitious to anyone who knew his intention.

“Do you mind?”

He didn’t mind, in fact. The Phoenician was exhausted from the long fight, and perhaps an Astartes nose would be able to detect a faint musk of exertion, but it was nothing compared to the rich skeins of interwoven scent that assaulted Russ at the core of his senses.

The oils and the faint, sweet perfume that usually telegraphed his presence. The polishes worked into the armour, that rubbed off on skin. The physical effort, pleasant in its own way – confidence, not desperation; a body that had strived but not been stretched to its limits. Blood and incendiaries, overlaying it all in a decidedly ephemeral manner, that would be washed away with the next shower. Dominance and silk and gold – and, fleetingly, Ferrus.

Russ smiled at that last, but didn’t mention it. To describe such olfactory depth in poetic terms – in verbal terms, even – failed utterly to do it justice. And he was no bard; pretty words meant nothing without the skills to use them.

“If you’re going to stick your nose in my hair, at least wait until I’ve bathed.”

“But that’s not interesting.”

A raised eyebrow and a look that confirmed that his brother, primarch or not, knew so little about the world presented to him in one breath.


End file.
